I 've Heard That Song Before

39

For the last few days, Pat Jennings had not known what to make of her employer, Richard Walker. On Monday he had come in with the familiar look of relief which usually signaled that his mother had paid his gambling debts. That same day, his stepbrother, Peter Carrington, was arraigned on a charge of murder. The next day, on Tuesday, Walker had spoken freely about him: “We had dinner with Peter after he got home,” he told Pat.

Pat asked him about the former maid, Maria Valdez.

“Naturally Peter’s depressed by what has happened,” Walker explained. “It is despicable that that woman changed her story, and now is tainting the memory of my stepfather. I hope they put me on the stand. I’d be able to tell them firsthand how the old man had bursts of spontaneous generosity. I remember one night I was having dinner at 21 with him and Mother. Somebody came to the table to talk about some worthy cause or another, and Carrington senior pulled out his checkbook and wrote a check for ten thousand dollars then and there. Then he stiffed the waiter with a cheap tip.”

Walker also talked to Pat about Peter’s wife, Kay. “Absolutely wonderful girl,” he raved. “Just what Peter has needed for years. From what I’ve seen, even with all his money, he’s never had much happiness.”

On Wednesday morning, Walker came into the gallery with a pretty young artist, Gina Black, in tow. Like her predecessors, Gina was introduced to Pat as a brilliant talent, one whose career was going to flourish under Walker’s guidance.

Uh-huh, was Pat’s reaction.

She had heard about the skeletal remains found on the grounds of the estate on Wednesday night when she and her husband were watching the evening news. The fact that it was the body of Kay Carrington’s father was revealed to her the next morning by Walker.

“They’re not releasing any details yet,” he confided, “but he was wearing a chain and locket with a picture of Kay’s mother in it. My mother is freaking out. She was in her New York apartment and heard about it when she turned on the television. She said that when they were searching the grounds with the dogs before the rain started the other day, she asked the detectives if they thought the place was a cemetery.”

“Two bodies found on the estate,” Pat said. “You couldn’t pay me to live there.”

“Nor me,” Walker agreed, as he passed her desk to go into his own office. “I’ll be on the phone for a while. Hold any other calls.”

Jennings watched as Walker closed the door firmly enough that she could hear a decisive click. He’ll be on the phone with his bookie, she thought. He’ll be head over heels in debt again in no time. I wonder when his mother will finally throw up her hands and tell him to figure it out for himself.

She reached for her copy of the New York Post which she’d tucked in the bottom file drawer in her desk. On the bus down to Fifty-seventh Street, she’d skimmed Page Six, but now she read it line by line. That poor Kay Carrington, she thought. What must it be like to be married to a man who’s obviously a serial killer? She must worry that she’ll wake up dead someday.

There was only one phone call in the next hour, that one from a woman who gave her name as Alexandra Lloyd. She had called last week and Walker had not called her back. Had he received her message? she asked.

“He definitely received the message,” Jennings said firmly. “But I’ll remind him.”

“Please take my number again, and will you tell him that it’s very important?”

“Of course.” Thirty minutes later, when Walker opened the door of his office, Pat could see the flush of excitement on his face. There isn’t a horse running anywhere today that he hasn’t bet on, she thought. “Richard,” she said, “I left a note on your desk last week that an Alexandra Lloyd phoned. She just called again and said that it’s important you get in touch with her.”

She held out the paper with the woman’s number. Richard took it from her, tore it up, and went back into his office. This time he slammed the door shut.